


Femslash Yuletide: Four Ficlets

by BowlOfGlow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:52:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowlOfGlow/pseuds/BowlOfGlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is says on the tin. Four ficlets based on Christmas-themed prompts, written for Femslash Yuletide and originally posted on Tumblr.<br/>See chapter title for prompt/pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holiday Traditions: Irene/Molly

Irene glides on the ice with swan-like elegance – of course she does. She always moves with effortless grace so Molly isn’t surprised, but still, it’s a bit frustrating when she keeps landing on her backside every time she tries to move her feet.

“This was a terrible idea,” Molly says, sitting up.

Irene laughs, skating in a circle around Molly – _backwards_ , because she likes showing off, and because Molly likes show-offs, too.

“This was a marvellous idea,” Irene says, stopping in front of Molly. “I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.” She smiles and holds out her hand. “Up you get.”

Irene helps Molly up, putting her hands under Molly’s elbows to steady her as she wobbles on her feet.

“You all right?” Irene asks, and Molly nods. “Now, dear. You know what they say about doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you have to bend your knees a bit, or you’ll keep falling on your ass. There,” Irene says, moving to Molly’s side. “Like so. And lean slightly forward with your chest. Feel like trying again?”

Irene offers Molly her elbow, and Molly latches onto Irene’s arm.

“Just… don’t go too fast,” Molly says.

Irene moves, and Molly follows, trying to focus on doing what Irene said. It is better – well, at least she’s actually moving forward this time.

“Don’t look at your feet,” Irene says, and Molly looks up. The Natural History Museum is lit up and the lights on the façade have now changed from white to blue. Dozens of children skate around the huge Christmas tree at the centre of the ice rink, laughing, falling, getting up again.

“Where did you learn how to skate like this?” Molly asks.

“My mother used to take me and my sister skating every winter,” Irene says. “She loved it.”

“You seem to love it as well,” Molly observes, and Irene smiles.

“I ice-skated for a while in my teens. Flirted with the idea of becoming a professional. Of course that was never going to happen, but you know me. All the world’s a stage…” Slowly, Irene comes to a halt near the edge of the ice rink. “And I like to be under the limelight.”

“Well,” Molly says, “you look good under the limelight.”

Irene’s eyes glint in appreciation.

“Oh, very smooth, Molly Hooper,” she says, and after tugging Molly closer by the lapels of her coat she presses a quick kiss on her mouth.

They lean against the wooden railing, looking at the other people skating in circles.

“We should make this a Christmas tradition,” Molly says, after a minute or so.

“Well,” Irene replies, “you could use the practice.”

Molly slaps her arm. “I’m being serious.”

Irene turns to look at her. Her face looks both odd and beautiful, illuminated by the red and golden lights.

“Yes,” Irene says softly, staring at Molly. “I would like that very much.”


	2. Festive Drinks: Sarah/Janine

Sarah’s not sure coming to this Christmas party was a good idea.

It’s not because of John – they are friends now, in loose terms, and they keep in touch, but they have not seen each other in months. She couldn’t even make it to his wedding, which she felt horribly guilty about and which is, in a sense, the main reason she accepted John’s invitation.

After some awkward chatting with Mary and Molly and Mrs Hudson though, Sarah feels she’s exhausted every possible topic of conversation. She's retreated to one side of the room, her back against the kitchen doorway, sipping from her glass of wine and wondering how to make an early exit without being too rude.

“You’re one of the famous ex-girlfriends,” says someone to her right, distracting her from her thoughts.

Sarah turns to look at the woman who’s spoken. She’s an attractive brunette in a black dress – they haven’t really talked yet, they've only been briefly introduced, but Sarah already knew who she was. Hard not to when her face had been on the front pages of half the British tabloids for over a week and well, she still reads John’s blog now and again.

“I could say the same thing,” Sarah says, smiling.

Janine smiles back. There’s something bright and open about her face, something that puts Sarah at ease despite her straightforwardness.

“Well, not _one of_ , in my case,” Janine says. “Just the one, apparently. Although…” She lowers her voice, looking behind her back before leaning closer in a confidential manner. “All those stories they published in the papers weren’t entirely accurate. I might’ve exaggerated a few things.”

That doesn’t surprise Sarah in the slightest. She’s met Sherlock and she’s heard John talk about the man often – a bit too often, to be honest – and she finds it difficult to imagine Sherlock Holmes shagging _anyone_ for hours over every surface of his flat.

God, that’s an image she didn’t need in her head.

“Believe it or not, I already had my suspicions,” Sarah says. “I mean, no offense, but _tantric sex_? Doesn’t sound very much like him.”

They both turn to look at Sherlock. He has abandoned his violin after grudgingly playing a round of Christmas carols and he’s now standing in a corner, tapping away on his phone. Someone – either Mrs Hudson or John, probably – has forced some antlers on his head, and he still hasn’t bothered to remove them. It’s also possible he hasn’t noticed.

Janine shrugs.

“Well, he did deserve it, though,” she says. “He was kind of a dick.”

“So, what are you doing here?” Sarah, asks, curious. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d invite you after the… breakup and everything.”

“Oh, he didn’t. That was Mary. We’re good friends.” She nods towards Mary, who’s sitting in Sherlock’s chair with a glass of wine. John, wearing a hideously festive jumper, sits on one of the armrests, one hand draped over his wife’s shoulder.

“But Sherlock and I have made up, anyway,” Janine adds. “It’s all water under the bridge now. We keep in touch. Occasionally, he can be very useful.”

Sarah’s probably had too much mulled wine and has reached the easily amused, giddy stage of tipsiness. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if she’s imagining the allusiveness in Janine’s tone, but there’s no mistaking the wink that follows. There is _something_ going on – and if Sarah were a bit more sober she could probably tell what is was, but right now she can’t quite put her finger on it.

“Really?” she asks anyway, willing to play along.

“Oh, yes,” Janine says, nodding solemnly. “Especially at parties.”

That makes Sarah snort with laughter.

“No, I’m being serious!” Janine says, although she’s laughing as well. “All right, he’s not very social, but he’s good at noticing details, yes?”

“And that is useful how?” Sarah asks, because she remembers some of John’s stories, and she can think of a few occasions in which Sherlock’s eye for details ruined a party completely.

“Well, say you’re at a party, hoping to meet someone interesting,” Janine says. “Sherlock’s very good at reading people, so if you point to someone and ask, for example, ‘What can you tell me about that person, the one standing right under the mistletoe?’” Janine looks up, and Sarah follows her gaze. A branch of mistletoe is hanging right over her head. “Then he’d tell you if the two of you stand a chance or not.”

“I see,” Sarah says. “And what would he say about this person standing under the mistletoe? Hypothetically.”

Janine hums, pretending to think it over.

“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes,” Janine says slowly, “but I think he’d probably say this person was hoping to be kissed.”

Maybe it’s because of the wine, maybe it’s because she hasn’t been flirted at in ages, but Sarah feels herself blush.

“I wasn’t, to be honest,” she admits. “Though now that you bring it up, I don’t think I’d particularly mind.”

Janine smiles and steps closer, stands on her tiptoes, and presses a quick kiss on Sarah’s mouth.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock says, suddenly close, making Sarah jump.

Janine turns and smacks him on the arm.

“You weren’t talking about your dog again, were you?” Sherlock continues, looking utterly unfazed. “We talked about that.”

“No!” Janine cries, swatting at him again. “Go away.”

Sherlock sighs and returns to his corner, picking up his violin on the way. Sarah laughs.

“Sorry about that,” Janine says, turning to Sarah again. “He still needs some training.”

“It’s all right,” Sarah says.

As the first notes of _O Come All Ye Faithful_ start playing, Sarah leans towards Janine and kisses her again, but this time not quite as chastely. When they separate Sarah catches John’s eye across the room. He looks surprised but also slightly amused, and he raises his glass in Sarah’s direction in an ironic toast. Sarah laughs, covering her face with her hands.


	3. Reconciliation: Irene/Kate

It’s already December.

How fast time flies, Kate thinks, looking at the sparkling window shops of London. At this time last year Kate was sleeping on her sister’s sofa and trying to decide what to do with her life. As of now, she’s been working for a CEO of big company for over ten months. There’s plenty of businessmen ready to pay great money for a PA who is efficient, discreet and willing to bend a few rules, and working for Irene taught Kate how to be all of these things. It’s not exactly exciting – not compared to what she used to do – but if she wants to stay in London she needs a job that pays well, and this one does.

She has thought about looking for another job, sometimes. She’s not sure it would make much of a difference. Just changing one routine for another, Kate thinks while sitting in the Tube.

It takes Kate almost one hour to get back from the City, and when she arrives home it’s almost ten. She can’t wait take a hot shower, order some Chinese and relax in front of the telly with a glass or two of red wine.

When she opens the door, she freezes in the doorway. She’s certain she switched off all the lights in the flat before going to work – yet the one in the living room is on. As she hesitates, not knowing whether to enter or run out and call the police, Kate catches a whiff of perfume – a familiar, fresh scent of lavender with just a trace of spices. The keys of her flat slip from her fingers, jingling as they fall to the floor.

It’s funny, how quickly a scent jostles one’s memory. It’s been more than a year and half but she recognises that perfume immediately. Kate bends to pick up her keys, places them on the kitchen table. Not one sound comes from the living room. Kate walks there, with slow, careful steps.

She is not shocked to see Irene sitting on her sofa because that’s exactly what she was expecting to see. She is surprised Irene’s still alive, of course, and that she came here of all places. She is confused as to why Irene didn’t bothered to tell her she wasn’t dead, and suddenly upset that she didn’t. She’s a million different things all at once, but she does her best not to let anything show on her face.

Irene looks at Kate when she stops in the doorway but doesn’t get up. She’s wearing one of Kate’s bath robes and her hair are still damp. She’s half curled on the sofa with her bare feet on the cushion, she’s got her hair down and no makeup, all of which makes her look younger and vulnerable in a way Kate suspects might be calculated. Maybe she’s spent too much time around cynical people. Maybe she knows Irene too well.

“Hello,” Irene says with a hint of a smile.

She would sound self-assured to anyone else, but Kate has spent enough time with her to perceive a certain tentativeness in her tone and her pose. Good. Kate doesn’t reply. She keeps her mouth shut, hoping the silence will crush her.

As the silence stretches, Irene raises an eyebrow. “Not happy to see me?”

“What do you want?” Kate asks.

It’s brusque but she is not inclined to be nice, and more importantly she doesn’t have to – not now. Not after a year and a half of silence, not after months of grieving. She had hoped, for a while, before realising that even for Irene coming back from the dead twice would’ve been an ambitious feat. Apparently she underestimated her. Always a mistake.

If Irene is hurt by Kate harshness, she does her best not to show it.

“I see you’ve done well for yourself,” Irene says, looking around the room. “I’m pleased.”

“Are you?” Kate asks.

Irene uncurls from her position, lowering her feet to the floor.

“I understand you’re angry with me.”

Kate scoffs. Angry – what a ridiculous word. Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it. _Furious_ , that sounds more like it. She’d like to slap Irene hard enough to wipe that confident expression off her face. She’d like to open the door and tell her to get out in a completely indifferent voice.

(She’d like to kiss her, and tell her how much she’s missed her, and curl herself at her feet.)

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” Kate says. “Turns out you weren’t. And during all this time, it never occurred to you to let me know?”

“Of course it did.”

“Yes, I can believe that. Very convincing.”

Irene gets to her feet.

“Kitty,” she says, the pet name seeming to slip from her lips without conscious volition, and she quickly corrects herself. “Kate. I won’t pretend I’m not a selfish woman. You’ve known me long enough. Had I been free to do what I wanted, without fear of consequences, I would have contacted you immediately. Not doing that is probably the least selfish thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Irene stops, drawing an unsteady breath.

“Do you really think I haven’t missed you?” she says, her voice less smooth. “That I don’t care about you at all?”

Irene is either a really good actress or she is being sincere, and Kate isn’t sure what she wants to believe.

“I think you do not know how to care for other people,” Kate says. “I’m not sure you ever have.”

Irene blinks quickly and looks away.

“You can stay here for the night, if you have to,” Kate says after a while. “But I want you gone by tomorrow.”

***

Kate remains awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She doesn’t know why she offered Irene to stay, and she expects her to leave at any moment – but much as she strains her ears, she never hear the sound of the front door being open, or even of Irene moving. The whole flat is eerily quiet, and once or twice Kate wonders if the encounter has been nothing but a strange dream. After a couple of hours of restless fidgeting, Kate slips into her nightgown and goes to the living room.

Irene is also awake. She’s still on the sofa, wearing a blue sweater and a pair of jeans, but her hair is still loose on her shoulder. Kate enters, and Irene just stares at her in silence as she sits on the sofa.

“Why did you come back?” Kate asks. It’s the question that’s been running through her head for hours, one that has become so unbearable that it needs to be asked, even if the answer might hurt her.

“Oh, I’m not going to stay in London,” Irene replies, quietly. “Or in England, for that matter. I’m flying to the States in two days. A fresh start, new identity. I’ve got papers and everything.”

“No, I meant… why did you come here?”

“I told you why.”

“No,” Kate laughs, bitterly. “You didn’t.”

“Because I wanted you to come with me,” Irene says. She doesn’t elaborate further – she says just that, and then falls silent.

“And you thought that I’d be only too happy to give up my job, and my house – a whole new life – to run away with you?”

“I told you,” Irene says. “I _am_ selfish. I want you always at my side. Just as I wanted you while I was gone.”

“Then why,” Kate says, and she has to stop because her voice sounds strangled. “Why wait all this time?”

“Because it was dangerous,” Irene says. “Because it might’ve got you killed. And you can hate me all you want…” Irene reaches out slowly, strokes two fingers gently down Kate’s cheek. “But I’m so glad you’re alive, love.”

A tear rolls down Kate’s cheek, and she angrily wipes it away.

“I’m so mad at you,” she chokes out.

“I know,” Irene whispers. “I understand.”

Kate scoots closer to Irene. She places a trembling hand on her face, stroking her cheek with her thumb, then pulls Irene closer, embracing her tightly.

***

They lie in Kate’s bed, curled on their side – Kate’s front to Irene’s back, Kate’s arm draped around Irene’s waist. Kate inhales deeply against Irene’s hair, smelling the familiar lavender scent.

“So, America,” Kate says.

Irene hums, taking Kate’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Tell me what you’ve been doing all this time,” Kate says. “And then tell me what you had in mind. Mind you, I am _not_ saying yes.”

***

The next morning Irene shows Kate everything – ID, passport, driving license, all expertly forged.

“I thought you’d like to keep your first name. What do you think?” Irene asks over her mug of coffee.

Kate looks down at her ID, swiping a finger over her photograph.

“Katherine Norton,” Kate says. She repeats the name softly to herself, letting it roll on her tongue. “Yes. It has a nice ring to it.”


	4. Chimney: Sally/Molly

Naked on a slab under the harsh, white lights of the morgue, the body looked almost different from the one they'd found in the old building, Sally mused. It seemed smaller somehow, and withered, and unequivocally dead in a way it didn’t look when wedged in a chimney with all clothes still on.

Molly Hooper pointed to the man’s discoloured fingertips with a latex gloved hand.

“So, the cyanosis is not due to hypothermia,” she explained. “He actually died of mechanical asphyxiation. See these bruises here?” Molly pointed to some blue spots on the men’s torso. “His chest cavity didn’t have enough space to expand properly. He’s got a couple of broken ribs, too.”

Sally grimaced. “Unpleasant way to die.”

“That’s why entering houses through chimneys is best left to Santa,” Molly said, giggling at her own joke. She stopped almost immediately, looking mortified.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “That was way out of line, wasn’t it? It’s just, you get used to all sorts of things here, sometimes I can’t help myself. Sorry.”

“Believe me, you’re not the first who’s made that joke,” Sally said before Molly could apologise again. “Half of my team’s calling him 'Nick'.” Sally sighed. “That’s what happens when you find a John Doe stuck in a chimney around Christmas, I suppose.”

Molly giggled again nervously, starting to zip up the body bag.

“Burglary gone wrong?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Sally tapped her pen on the file folder in her hand, thoughtful. “But _Nick_ here was found by a squatter in an abandoned building. There was nothing for him to steal.”

Molly nodded. She looked down at her hands, looked up again, opened her mouth as if to speak.

“We don’t need Sherlock’s help,” Sally stopped her before she could say anything. “If he asks you to see the body then please, tell him D.I. Donovan said to keep his nose out of her case. He can always go pester Lestrade if he’s bored.”

“Oh,” Molly said, looking wrong-footed. “That wasn’t what… Actually, I – I was wondering if you’d like to have a drink?”

Sally blinked, confused.

“A drink?” she repeated.

“Not _now_ , obviously,” Molly hastened to clarify. “I meant if you’d like to go out for a drink, sometime. With me. Or, you know, other people as well, that would be fine, of course. Oh, I’ve gone about it the wrong way, haven’t I? Never mind.”

Molly peeled her gloves off, keeping her face down and looking – Sally thought – adorably flustered.

“Molly,” Sally said, slowly. “Was that you trying to ask me out?”

“No!” Molly blurted. “I mean. Well, _yes_. But don’t worry, it’s all right.”

She stuffed her gloves in her lab coat pocket, her face bright red.

“Good,” Sally said. “Because I could do this Saturday. Say around nine?”

Molly looked up so quickly Sally wondered if she’d hurt her neck.

“Oh,” Molly said, sounding surprised. “Yes, that… that’d work for me, too.” She smiled awkwardly. “I’ll try to keep all embarrassing jokes to a minimum.”

“That’s okay,” Sally said, smiling back. “I really don’t mind.”


End file.
